


The Colour of Calm

by VioletLopez



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: i feel like he could be a really complex character but no one gives him a chance, i really like morris yknow, i wrote this on a rooftop at 3a dont judge me, im an overachiever i know, im back, leave it to me and i'll write something angsty/abstract, this is both!, well yknow how it goes, with more death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 18:39:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11720193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletLopez/pseuds/VioletLopez
Summary: "He spread his arms, like he could take flight and ride the winds, up into the pink-purple-blue-black-everchanging sky, and forever feel this feeling of calm as he floated above the edge of his beating heart."it is a night of calm, of purple wind and crimson shouts and tendrils of silver fear





	The Colour of Calm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cazei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazei/gifts).



His toes hung off the edge of the roof, his eyes hung down to the ground. A smirk played across his face. How odd, that he fought everyday to keep his uncle from beating the life out of him, to keep his brother from drinking himself to death, when he himself felt so at home and so at peace while he stood here on the ledge, toeing the limits of mortality. He spread his arms, like he could take flight and ride the winds, up into the pink-purple-blue-black-everchanging sky, and forever feel this feeling of calm as he floated above the edge of his beating heart.

 

But he didn’t want to fly. He let his arms drop to his sides.

 

Let the winds fly purple through the skies, and let the birds ride them. Let the clouds form and fall and fade and he would not follow them, would stay here on his rooftop paradise as they drifted to the horizon. Let the rain pour down hard or the moon pour down harder and here he will remain, alive and thriving at the border of death.

 

He looks up at the sky and it’s inconsistencies and he sneers. He looks down at the chaos of the street and laughs. It is a blue sound, dark blue satire, because what do the earth and the sky know? They know of fighting, of changing, of war. They cannot achieve this feeling, this calm that comes from standing just above Death’s head.

 

He scoots forward so that one foot is halfway off the ledge. The earth is not a bad place to lie-

 

“Morris?” And the red tones of his brother’s voice strike his ears. He thinks he can hear a tint of silver fear, perhaps a dash of violet worry. He turns and smiles at Oscar.

 

“The purple wind and the orange chaos,” he begins. He pauses, and Oscar steps forward. “Which do I prefer?”

 

“You prefer the indoors,” Oscar says, reaching out. “You prefer the safety inside the window, not the mess of the world.”

 

“A mess,” he breathes. “Yes. The world is a mess, isn’t it? Not just the world, either - heaven and the skies and hell below - a mess. A colourful mess.” He looks Oscar in the eye. “A colourful mess,” he repeats, “Safety is the same mess, but in black and white.”

 

“What does any of this mean?” And poor Oscar looks so confused, he has to help him understand. Oscar never was a man of words, though, nor particularly bright. Actions will get through to him quicker than the abstract art of words.

 

And so Morris explains through a white loss of gravity and a ride on the purple wind. A crimson shout reaches his ear, shot through with the silver tendrils of fear and thick black jets of loss.

 

The earth is not at all a bad place to lie.


End file.
